BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers)

by Robert Bidinotto

  She moved behind a tree about fifty meters away.

  “Base,” she whispered. “Tango Two in sight. His back is to me. Getting within range to take him out.”

  “Negative, Nightstalker! You can’t do that. No shooting. Repeat: No gunfire.”

  It astounded her. “Sir—why not?”

  “You are within two hundred yards of homes. The last thing we need is shots fired, and neighbors alerting the cops. Think it through. If either you or our mutual friend is caught up there, then much more than this one op is blown. You know how much flak the Agency takes for our black ops. So what happens to us if we’re caught doing this sort of shit on American soil? We can’t risk that.”

  “But sir—” she hissed into the mic.

  “No ‘buts.’ This is not just about you, or him, or me. It’s about the Agency—our very survival. That’s why this op must remain black. Inky black. So, here is how you play it. You capture, subdue, and leave the tangos for the locals. You shoot only as a last resort, in direct self-defense. And if you must use deadly force, then you clean up the mess afterward, to make sure there is no blowback to us. That’s an order. Do you copy?”

  The Beretta’s sights were trained on the back of the man in the distance. She wanted to scream in frustration. But Grant had already gone way out on a limb for them tonight. She owed him at least this much.

  “Yes, sir. Copy.”

  She slipped from behind the tree and moved toward the man, pistol at the ready.

  He stood beside the truck yelling into the walkie-talkie, his back still to her.

  “Zak! Come on, man! Can you hear me? … What the hell’s happening?”

  She was within fifteen feet of him when he must have heard her or spotted her in the truck’s outside mirror. Without warning, he spun and hurled the walkie-talkie at her.

  It struck her hard, in her upper right arm. She gasped at the pain and barely managed to keep her grip on the Beretta.

  He spun back to the truck and clawed for the rifle, just out of reach across the hood. Flipping up her NVGs, she rushed him. She slammed into his back, knocking him hard against the truck. He grunted and turned. She started a jiu-jitsu takedown—only to find that her right arm had gone numb.

  He grabbed her useless gun hand and started to pry her fingers from it. She seized the gun’s barrel in her left hand and tried to twist it from him. But he knocked her hand aside, grasped the barrel himself, and stepped back to wrench it from her grip. His momentum caused him to trip and half-fall against the truck.

  He now held her handgun by the barrel in his right hand. Rather than try to run, she rushed him again, this time aiming a kick toward his midsection. It only grazed his hip, but he was off-balance and it sent him to his knees. As he struggled to rise, she kicked again, and this time luck was with her: It caught his right forearm and knocked the weapon several feet away into the darkness.

  She went after it, but her legs felt like mush and couldn’t move fast enough. He caught her from behind and wrapped his cable-like arms around hers in a bear hug. She tried to stomp his instep but, roaring like an animal, he lifted her right off the ground.

  She felt helpless as a rag doll. Her energy was spent. Her flailing kicks against his shins had little power or effect. The hideous pressure on her ribs crushed the breath from her lungs. Trapped down along her sides, her hands could only scratch weakly against his thighs, trying in vain to get at his groin.

  But then her left hand closed on something else. And she knew instantly what it was.

  With a desperate twist of her body she yanked the hunting knife free of its sheath. Then plunged it upward, into the meat of his forearm.

  “Ahhhhhhh!”

  His scream pierced the air and his arms fell from her body, and before she could think or he could react she whipped around and jammed the blade forward into his stomach, as hard as she could.

  It cut off his scream. The tall red-haired guy folded over, clutching his middle. His face bobbed inches from hers, his eyes and mouth gaping oval wounds filled with shock and pain.

  Then another face drifted in from memory … the face of Adam Silva.

  The blade, warm and sticky, shook in her fist.

  “You son of a bitch!” she snarled.

  Then drove it in again.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Within a minute after running across the street in front of Adair’s house, Boggs had found an ATV path in the woods. But it was heading east, parallel to the ridge—away from Rusty and the pickup.

  He paused to make a fast decision.

  If those were FBI hostage-rescue thugs outside the house, then there was a strong chance that they already spotted Rusty and his truck. Or would, the minute he tried to flee. It was now too risky for him to head over there, too, where they could both be trapped on that little dead-end road.

  He no longer had the walkie-talkie to warn Rusty. He hated to abandon him like this, to leave him behind to fend for himself. But Rusty was a good, loyal soldier. He knew the risks. Rusty wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice himself for the greater good, if he had to—

  —unlike so many others. Unlike that Judas, Conn. Or that coward, Dawn. No, Rusty wouldn’t blame him for leaving him behind. And if he were captured, he wouldn’t betray him, either.

  As for her—well, she had made her choice, hadn’t she. When push came to shove, she revealed her true commitments. The rest had been nothing but talk, all pretense. Years of bullshit that he should have seen through, long ago. It was a good thing that he found out the truth about her now, instead of at some critical moment when it might have really mattered.

  Good riddance to the bitch …

  So he headed east, down the dark, almost invisible trail, pushing deeper into the forest. He knew that eventually this path would intersect some forest road. From there he would get his bearings and find his way out of the area …

  After fifteen interminable minutes, Hunter heard the front door open.

  “Dylan?”

  The voice was faint. It took a couple of seconds for it to register.

  “Annie?” he shouted, incredulous.

  He heard steps coming down the hall.

  Then she was framed in the entranceway, pistol in hand.

  Her face, hands, jeans, and leather jacket—all smeared with blood.

  “Annie!” he gasped. “You’re bleeding!”

  A faint smile touched her lips.

  “It’s not mine.”

  She paused there, just an instant, her smoky gray eyes holding his, telling him everything.

  Then she rushed over, knelt, and wrapped her arms tightly around him. He felt her body trembling.

  “You’re all right,” she whispered. “You’re all right …”

  “Are you all right?”

  She looked up at him, eyes tired but relieved. “I am now.”

  “The blood,” he said. “Boggs?”

  “No. The guy working with him.”

  “So where is Boggs?”

  “In the woods. Don’t worry, the UAS is tracking him.”

  “I would hug you back,” he said, “but I’m a bit tied up at the moment.”

  She laughed, squeezing him even tighter. She let go, then reached into her jacket pocket. Her hand emerged with a hunting knife.

  Covered with blood.

  “Let me cut you loose.” She glanced at the others. They stared at her, wordless and open-mouthed. “I’ll free all of you in another minute.” She bent to work on the bonds at his feet.

  He, too, was speechless as he watched her work. He had heard no gunshots. And he knew whose knife that was.

  So he knew what all that blood had to mean.

  “Grant sent you, then. You brought in the jammer.”

  “Don’t blame him. There was no one else.”

  A rope on his ankle parted. She paused, not looking at him.

  “I didn’t think I’d make it in time.”

  “But you did,” he said, gently. “You did it, Annie.
”

  She looked up at him, the blood-coated knife steady in her grip.

  “I did what I had to.”

  Hunter sent them all outside to wait in his car at a safe distance while he worked on the bomb.

  He didn’t think it would be booby-trapped, and it wasn’t. Boggs had meant to set it off here himself, not plant it for later accidental detonation by some unwary victim. The top of the outer case, which was little more than a carrier, was open; he could see inside. With tools from Adair’s garage workshop he dismantled it inside of fifteen minutes. He carefully wrapped the pipe bombs, the cell-phone and button switches, and the detonator in separate rags, then in individual plastic bags. After placing the items in a large cardboard box he found in the garage, he carried it out to his car.

  Will wasn’t inside the Forester with the rest of them. He sat by himself on the short brick wall along the driveway, hunched over, head in hands.

  They got out and went back into the house. He placed the box gently in the rear cargo area, cushioned it so that it wouldn’t move around, then locked the car. Turning, he saw Adair standing outside the front door, waiting for him. Hunter walked over.

  “You’re a man of many talents, Dylan Hunter,” he said, gesturing toward the car.

  “Oh, that? I had some EOD training in the service. During the Iraq War.”

  Adair made a face. “Bullshit. I watched you tonight. The way you look around, never missing anything. The way you took command of the situation. How you dealt with Boggs and his punk. Now you dismantle a bomb without breaking a sweat … And then there’s your girlfriend. Annie comes waltzing in here, toting a gun; she takes out an armed man, apparently in hand-to-hand combat; and she brings along some kind of James Bond gadget that keeps the bomb from exploding. I also notice that she’s wearing some kind of body wire, and she’s constantly whispering to somebody. Dylan, I feel like I’m in some kind of spy movie. So, level with me. What gives?”

  “Dan, look. I—”

  “Listen, you don’t have to explain anything, if you don’t want to. I figure you two are probably from some government counterterrorism agency, so whatever you tell me is going to be some cooked-up story, anyway. It also dawned on me tonight that you and Annie must be the same pair that my people ran into at the diner about a month ago. Those two called themselves ‘Brad and Annie.’” Adair chuckled. “Coincidence? I don’t think so. And please don’t insult my intelligence by telling me any different.”

  “I would never insult your intelligence, Dan.”

  “So, then. I’m right about all this spy shit, huh?”

  Hunter had to laugh. He just shrugged.

  “You don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Fair enough. But can you at least tell me why Annie had to bring in that bomb-jamming gizmo at the very last minute? My God, Dylan, why didn’t you fetch it here in the first place, and spare all of us the scare of our lives?”

  “That wouldn’t have worked, Dan. The people helping us tonight were electronically monitoring everything that was being said inside the house. But the jammer would have blocked their communications and monitoring. They would have had no way of knowing what was happening, or what they were up against. Besides, if Boggs discovered too soon that his walkie-talkies, video monitoring, and cell transmissions were being blocked, he would have just shot us before anyone could have gotten here.”

  “Oh. I see that, now.”

  Dylan turned to go.

  “Before you run off, do you mind if I ask you a quick personal question?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The thing I can’t figure about you is: If you’re government, why do you write what you do in the newspaper? Taking on all these politicians and government agencies? Dylan, I think I’m a good judge of character. You seem completely sincere about what you write, and what you’ve been doing to help us.”

  “I am, Dan. That part—being a newspaper reporter, writing what I write—it’s all real. All true.”

  Adair stepped forward, hesitantly—then reached out and gripped Hunter by the shoulders.

  “I want to believe that. We need somebody like you, Dylan. God, the world needs somebody like you. I can’t tell you how much.” He lowered his eyes. “I can’t put into words … just how grateful—”

  “It’s not necessary, Dan.”

  “No, it is.” He blinked rapidly, cleared his throat. “You saved our lives tonight. You and Annie. You saved my wife and daughter and …” He stopped; his eyes moved to his stepson across the driveway, then back to Hunter. “And me. And my business, too. How can I ever—”

  “Dan, do you know the greatest thing you can do for Annie and me, right now?”

  “Name it.”

  “Tonight never happened.”

  They stood looking at each other a long moment.

  Adair nodded again. “Okay.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you and your family don’t breathe a word about this. To anyone. Ever.”

  “I’ll make sure they all understand.” He looked again toward Will. “Especially him. Did you know he was working with Boggs all along? He was the one who planted those fake samples, for God’s sake. My own stepson!”

  Hunter squeezed Adair’s arm. “I’m really sorry, Dan.”

  “He almost got all of us killed.”

  “It looks as if he realizes that now … Maybe he can make some amends.”

  “Amends? Are you kidding? How could he possibly—”

  “He can start by telling the police everything he knows. Not about tonight, of course, but about WildJustice. What they’ve done. Who they’re working with. Who finances them. That could bring a lot of bad people to justice. And also, he needs to tell the media about planting those fake chemical samples. Believe me, that will cause a sensation—enough to save your business, I think.”

  “I’ll damned well see to it that he does. More than that: I’ll make sure you get his story first, for your paper.”

  Hunter grinned. “My editor will love that … There’s one more favor I’d like to ask of you, Dan. I saw some items in your garage that I’d like to borrow for the next few hours.”

  “Sure. Go ahead, take anything you need.” Adair’s brows furrowed. “Do you mind my asking what for?”

  He looked off to the east, into the forest.

  “I’m going hunting.”

  In a bay of the three-car garage, Hunter secured various items from the workshop and placed them into the rear bed of Adair’s Kawasaki Mule ATV. The last thing to go in, on a blanket for cushioning, was the Remington 700 that Annie had fetched from Rusty’s pickup. Then he set Annie’s night-vision goggles on the seat.

  The Beretta was in his jacket pocket. He had ditched the bugged loafers and put on his boots again, tucking Rusty’s sheathed hunting knife into the right one, along his calf.

  Annie stood nearby, watching him. The butt of Boggs’s S&W .38 protruded from her jacket pocket. She still wore the earpiece and lapel mic.

  He went over to her. “I’ll need to borrow those.”

  She unclipped them and handed them over. He took her hand and drew her close.

  “You know why I have to do this.”

  “I know.” She held up her bloodstained hands, gave him a little smile. “Who am I to argue?”

  He laughed. Ran his thumb across her smudged cheek.

  “I love you, Annie Woods.”

  “I love you, Dylan Hunter.”

  Then he kissed her.

  He put on the NVGs and turned over the engine. Then took the ATV down the driveway, across the road, and into the forest on the other side.

  He had already tested the earpiece to establish contact with Garrett. Using the Predator’s sensors, the spy boss directed him onto the same ATV trail that Boggs had taken forty minutes earlier. The bird still tracked him; Grant told Hunter that Boggs had traveled barely a mile through the rough terrain.

  “I must say how nice i
t is to hear your voice again, Grant,” he shouted above the growl of the engine.

  “You, too. I was sweating bullets until Annie told me she had neutralized the bomb.”

  “Speaking of Annie: I don’t know whether to hug you for all you’ve done tonight, or kill you for sending her in.”

  “Frankly, I don’t know which threat frightens me more. But there really was no one else available to do it on such short notice. And you must admit: She performed magnificently.”

  He thought of her in the den’s entranceway, holding the Beretta.

  “That she did.”

  The Mule’s powerful headlamps revealed a large boulder in his path; he navigated around it, bouncing over a bone-jarring rough patch next to the trail.

  “So how much trouble have I gotten you into tonight?” he asked.

  Garrett actually laughed. It turned into a coughing fit. He cleared his throat.

  “Nada. The people here know better. Besides, everybody’s buying the cover story. The two sensor guys and the UAS pilot think this is just a cool training mission, and that they’re being graded for extra brownie points. I told them to butt out of the audio monitoring, and to send the feeds directly to my headset. So they don’t know squat about what’s been happening. I did hate to lie to my colonel buddy at Belvoir; but in my position, he would have done the same thing. And the chopper pilot is none the wiser, either. So I’d say that all my bases are covered.”

  “You know that I owe you another box of cigars for this. What’s your poison?”

  Garrett told him.

  “Ouch. Those are pricey. And hard to come by.”

  “Are you telling me that you don’t have the money or resources to get them?”

  “Of course I can. But you know how much I hate sending my hard-earned cash to Fidel.”

  “Tough shit.”

  Boggs stopped at the crest of a small hill to catch his breath and figure out what to do next. But he saw nothing in the dark—nothing but an endless black expanse of trees.